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The Ward of King Canute

O >> Ottilie A Liljencrantz >> The Ward of King Canute




"Prepare yourself, then, for a thunderbolt, Rothgar Lodbroksson," a clear
voice spoke up suddenly.

None but had forgotten the red-cloaked figure munching its bread in the shadow
behind them. One and all started in surprise. And the chief turned over his
shoulder a face that was livid with anger. "You--you dare!" he roared.

But Randalin's heart was too full of bitterness to leave any room for fear. At
the moment, it seemed to her that it did not matter what happened. She stood
before the Jotun as straight and unbending as a spear-shaft, and her eyes were
reflections of his own. Her wonder was great when slowly, even while his eyes
blazed, Rothgar's mouth began to twitch at the corners. All at once he rolled
over on his back with a shout of laughter.

"By Ragnar, there will not be many jests to equal this!" he gasped. "That a
titmouse should ruffle its feathers and upbraid me! Here is merriment!" He lay
there laughing after the others had joined in with him; and his face was not
entirely sober the next time he turned it toward her. "Good Berserker, give me
leave to live some while longer in order that I may explain my intentions."

Yet when he had risen, a change came into his voice that brought every man to
his feet. "We will make ready to go at cockcrow," he said abruptly. "If it
were only a matter of a couple of days, I would wait; but since it will be at
least a week before we can expect them to give in, I think it unadvisable to
waste more time. Since the King is in this temper, the next battle may well be
the last; and much shame would come of it if we did not have our share. We
will start when the cock crows. As soon as Canute gets the kingship over the
English realm, Ivarsdale will fall to me anyway. Let the Angle enjoy himself
until then."




Chapter XVI

The Sword of Speech



Speech-runes thou must know
If thou wilt that no one
For injury with hate requite thee.
Sigdri'fuma'l.

No holiday finery tricked out the Danish host where it squatted along the
Severn Valley that dreary October day; neither festal tables nor dimpling
women nor even the gay striped tents. Of all the multitude of flags but one
banner pricked the murky air,--the Raven standard that marked the headquarters
of the King; and its sodden folds distinguished nothing more regal than a
shepherd's wattled cote. Scattered clumps of trees offered the weary men their
only protection against the drizzling rain; and the sole suggestions of
comfort were the sickly fires that patient endeavor had managed to coax into
life in these retreats. Some, whom exhaustion had robbed even of a
fire-tender's ambition, had dropped down on the very spot where they had
slipped from their saddles, and slept, cloak-wrapped, in the wet. And the
circles about the fires were not much noisier.

Rothgar's face gathered gravity as he gained the crest of the last hill that
lay between him and the straggling encampment.

"The rain appears to fall as coldly on their cheer as on their fires," he
commented. "They hug the earth like the ducks on Videy Island."

"And look about as much like warriors who have got a victory," the child of
Frode added wonderingly.

The Jotun threw her a glance, where she rode at his side. "Hear words of fate!
I think that is the first time you have spoken in three days."

"You would think that great luck if you knew the kind of thoughts that have
been in my mind," she muttered. But the son of Lodbrok was already leading his
men down the hillside toward the point where the silken banner mocked at the
wattled walls.

Under the thatched roof of the hut, a still more striking contrast awaited the
eyes of those who entered. With a milking-stool for his table and the
shepherd's rude bunk for a throne, the young King of the Danes was bending in
scowling meditation over an open scroll. Against the mud-plastered walls, the
crimson splendor of his cloak and the glitter of his gold embroideries gave
him the look of a tropical bird in an osier cage; while the fiery beauty of
his face shone like a star in the dusk of the windowless cell. Days in the
saddle and nights in the council had pared away every superfluous curve from
cheek and chin, until there was not one line left that did not tell of
impatient energy; and every spark of his burning soul seemed centred in his
brilliant eyes. At the sight of him, the girl's heart started and shook like a
harp-string under the touch of the master; and Rothgar, the stolid, the stern,
who had come to upbraid, bowed reverently as he grasped the hand his leader
stretched out.

"King, I would not have kept away had I guessed that my sword would be useful
to you. It was my belief that you were entertaining yourself with getting
property in Mercia, else would I have left all to come to you."

Canute half pressed the huge paw and then half spurned it. "It was in my mind
to give you a great scolding when I got you again. I thought you had drunk
sea-water and blood out of a magic horn and forgotten me utterly. You must
have gotten yourself fitted out for the rest of your life since at last you
were willing to leave."

"Lord," Rothgar began, "I have come back to you as poor as I went--"

But the King interrupted him, as at that moment, in the figure hesitating at
the door, he recognized his missing ward. "Say not so, when you have brought
back the bright blade we mourned as lost!" He put out his other hand with a
gleam of pleasure in his changeful eyes. "Welcome to you, Fridtjof the Bold! I
should like to believe that you are as glad to return to me as I am glad to
receive you."

As she stood there watching him, Randalin had been undergoing a strange
transformation. For four months she had almost forgotten his existence, he had
been little more than an empty name, while she gave every energy of mind and
heart to the things about her. But now, behold! One sight of his life-full
face, one moment in his dominating presence, and those months were swept into
the land of dreams. His deeds alone appeared vital; he alone seemed real. She,
the Etheling himself, were but as shadows depending upon his sun-like career.
If he should choose to shine upon them, what dark evil could come nigh? It was
in all sincerity that she bent her knee as she took his hand. "Lord," she
cried impulsively, "I have brought you back a loyal heart! I have been very
close to the English King, and he is unworthy to hold your sword."

Canute gave a sudden laugh; but it was a short one, and he turned away
abruptly to begin a restless pacing to and fro. "You choose your words in a
thoughtful way," he said. "It is seen that you do not say how it would be if
he were to hold his sword against mine." Pausing before Rothgar, he jerked his
head toward the scroll. "Do you know what that is? That is a challenge from
the Ironside."

"A challenge?" his listeners cried in chorus.

He seemed to take petulant offence at their surprise. "A challenge. Did you
never hear the word before, that you stare like oxen? He invites me to settle
this affair by single combat on the island, yonder; and there is the greatest
sense in what he says. Every one who has a man's wit is tired of the strife;
and if we continue at it, there will not be much to win besides ashes and
bones."

Rothgar sat gazing at the wooden door as though he could see through it the
huddled groups outside. "Now by no means do I think it strange that your host
is not in high spirits," he said.

With an impatient shrug the King moved on again. "It has happened, then, that
the news has spread? I wonder whether they are troubling themselves most for
fear that I shall undertake this fight and get killed, or for fear that I
shall turn back from it and the war will be obliged to go on. And I should be
glad if I knew what expectation was uppermost in the Gainer's mind when he
made the plan. For certainly one sees his claw behind the pen."

"May wolves tear him!" Rothgar burst out. "Two kings he has used as oaten
pipes, but never did I think that you would make the third."

Canute's foot jarred upon the earth; his face was suddenly aflame. "And never
will I, while my head remains above ground! Now are you even more rash than
you are wont! It is I who play on him, not he on me. Through him, as through a
pipe, I have tempted Edmund on; and through him, as through a pipe, I have
called Edmund off; and as with a broken pipe I shall part with him when I am
done,--and think it no falseness either, since I know for certain that it is
the fate he has in store for me, as soon as I cease to be gainful for him."
The worst of the young chief's nature showed for an instant in the smile that
widened his nostrils. Then it gave way to another flash of temper. "Nor am I a
pipe for your plaything, either. What! Am I to be as a child between you and
Thorkel, that each time I follow the advice of one of you, I am to get a
tongue-lashing from the other? Have you not got it into your head that I am
your King?"

Rothgar gave a short laugh. "I do not know if I have got it into my head or
not," he said; "but I am certain that my body is aware of your kingship." He
did not even move his eyes toward the stump of his wrist, but Canute turned
from him suddenly, his lip caught in his teeth, and once more strode up and
down the narrow space.

After the fourth round, he stopped and laid his hands affectionately upon his
foster-brother's shoulders. "Too long have we endured each other's roughness,
comrade, for you to think that unfriendliness is in my mind because I foam
over in this way. I tell you, you would not wonder at it if you knew the state
of my feelings. And I will not conceal it that I am glad you have come to
share them--though I have not the intention to heed a word of your advice," he
added, half laughing, half threatening. Pushing the other down upon the rough
bunk, he seated himself beside him, his elbows on his knees, his chin cupped
in his palms.

"The host is full of impatience; and I am weary unto madness. Never do we come
to any end, nor ever shall until that time when the wolf shall catch the sun!
I have nowhere heard of a more foolish war than this. It was in my mind, as
you came in, that I would send a favorable answer to the Englishman and get
the matter decided, one way or another."

Even Randalin uttered a cry; and Rothgar caught his King by the arm as though
to snatch him out of bodily peril. "Only one way would be possible, Canute!
Your waist is not so big as one of his arms. His sword would cleave you as if
it cut water."

Half laughing, but more resentful, the King freed himself. "Now do you hold my
power so lightly? More than once have I gotten under your guard. If skill
could accomplish anything, you would not have to wait long for what I should
fix upon." He broke off with a shrug and flung himself back upon the straw of
the bunk. "Let us speak of something else," he said. "What did the boy say
about having seen Edmund?"

Somewhat ramblingly, as uncertain of his interest, Randalin told him of her
glimpse of the Ironside; and he listened lying back on the straw, his eyes
fixed on the ceiling. She had begun to think he had forgotten her, when all at
once he shot out a swift question: "Did you never find out what the wool was
that Edric Jarl pulled over his eyes?"

"Not unless one could guess it from what King Edmund said, lord,--that the
Jarl had found them so much cleverer than he expected that his victory was
without relish to him, and he was desirous to regain their friendship."

A distinct chuckle came from Canute, and some murmur about the Ironside's
chin. Then he said, "Go on, and tell me everything you can remember"; and once
more lay staring at the ceiling in silence. He did not appear to notice it
when she stopped; the pause lasted so long that Rothgar concluded that sleep
had overtaken their host and rose softly to betake himself to such cheer as
the fires offered. As he made the first step, however, Canute sat up suddenly,
striking his fist upon the bunk.

"I will do it!" he said. While they stared, he rose and recommenced his
hurried pacing, his eyes keen and far away, his mouth set in grim resolve.

"Do what, King?" the son of Lodbrok ventured at last.

Canute's eyes appeared to rest upon the pair without seeing them. "Accept the
challenge," he answered absently. Then the utter horror in both faces brought
him momentarily back. "You need not look like that. I would not do it if I did
not see a good chance to win. There are other weapons than those which dwell
in sheaths."

"But if you lose?" Rothgar's harsh voice was discordant with emotion. "If you
lose?"

The King silenced him impatiently. "I do not think I shall lose; but if it be
otherwise, then Fate will rule it. I prefer to risk everything rather than to
experience more delay." Catching the bewildered page by the collar, he pushed
him toward the door. "Run, boy, with all the speed of your legs, and find
Ingimund the Swimmer and fetch him here. And you, foster-brother, if my fame
is important to you, do you betake yourself to those dumpish oafs around the
fires and try, by any means whatever, to remedy their faint-heartedness. Ask
them if they want the host across the river to think them turned into a herd
of weeping bondwomen. Ask them if they think thus to show honor to their King.
Tell them that I take it as no proof of their love; that I will have none of
that halting faith which limps up with a great cry after the show is over.
Tell them--Oh, tell them anything you think worth while--only that you get
some noise out of them! Evil will come of it if the Englishman is allowed to
believe that he has beaten us before ever he has struck a blow."

Rothgar sighed as he moved forward. "I am very unfit to speak words of
cheerfulness to anybody; but this shall, like other things, be as you wish."




Chapter XVII

The Judgment of The Iron Voice



His power should
Every sagacious man
Use with discretion,
For he will find,
When among the bold he comes,
That no one alone is doughtiest.
Ha'vama'l.

Fold by fold, the sun's golden fingers drew apart the mists that hid the
valley. One by one, the red Severn cliffs were uncovered, and the wooded
steeps on which the rival hosts were encamped. Brighter and brighter the
river's silver gleamed through its veilings. Finally the moment came when the
last mist-wreath floated up like a curtain, and there lay open the shining
water, and the rocky islet it seethed about, and the vision of two boats
setting forth from the two shores amid the noise of shouting thousands. It was
the hour of the royal duel, when the fate-thread of a nation, beaded with
human destinies, lay between the fingers of two men. What a scattering of the
beads if the cord should be cut!

Under the elms of the east bank, the daughter of Frode stood and watched the
boats set out; and the hands that hung at her side opened and shut as though
they were gasping for breath. For a moment she tortured herself with the
thought that she knew not which side to pray for, since the victory of either
would mean her beloved's undoing; then she forgot Sebert's future in her own
present. Turning, she found herself facing a wall of stalwart bodies, a sea of
coarse faces, and discovered, with a sudden tightening of her muscles, that
all the eyes which were not following the boat were centred curiously upon
herself.

Before she could take a step, the nearest warrior thrust out a hand and caught
her by her black locks. "Stop a little, my Bold One," he said gruffly. "Now
that you have a moment to spare from the high-born folk, it is the wish of us
churls to hear some of your news."

A score of heavy voices seconded the demand, and the wall gradually curved
into a circle around her. They were good-natured enough,--even the grasp on
her hair was roughly playful,--but her heart seemed to stop in her as a
swimmer's might the first instant he lost sight of land and beheld only
towering billows looming around him. She darted one swift glance at her knife,
and another at an old willow-tree that overhung the bank, some thirty yards
away. But even as she thought it, the hand left her hair and closed about her
wrist.

"No cause for knife-play or leg-play either, my hawk," the gruff voice rebuked
her. "To no one are we more anxious to show friendship than to Canute's ward;
and you act like no true man if you cannot, when occasion requires, leave off
your high-born ways and be a plain comrade among plain men."

Again a murmur approved his words: "That is well spoken. Frode of Avalcomb
would be the first to thank us for teaching it to you."... "He carried no such
haughty head, young boy. I fought more than one battle at his heels."... "
Come on, now!"... "Make haste! We want to get into place before they come to
land."

This time it was not a shadow but a sparkle of sunshine that mocked in
Randalin's ear: "You have not dared to be a woman, so you must dare to be a
man." She acknowledged the pitiless truth with a sigh of submission.

"Take your hands off me, and it shall be as you wish." The big Swede released
her wrist to catch her around the waist and toss her like a bone upon the
platter of his shield, which four of them promptly raised between them and
bore along, laughing uproariously at her sprawling efforts for dignity. When
they came to a spot along the bank which was open enough to give them an
unobstructed view of the island, they permitted her to scramble down and seat
herself upon the grass, where they ringed themselves around her, twenty deep.

"Now for it! While they are waiting for Edmund to land; before there is
anything to watch," the Scar-Cheek commanded. "Tell what you told Canute with
regard to the English King which made him so reckless as to agree to this
bargain."

There was nothing for it but obedience. A flower in a thicket of thistles, a
lamb in the midst of wolves, she sat and watched the tipping of the scales
that had her fortune among their weights.

A shout from the surging mass of English opposite told when the Ironside had
landed; and as soon as it was seen whom he had chosen to accompany him as his
witness, a buzz of excitement passed along the Danish line.

"Edric! by all the gods, Edric Jarl!"

"Now, for the first time, I believe that victory will follow Canute's sword!"
Brass Borgar ejaculated. "Since nothing less than the madness betokening death
could cause Edmund to continue his trust in the Gainer, it is seen from this
that he is a death-fated man."

From the others there came a volley of epithets, so foul a flight that the
girl's knuckles whitened in her struggles to keep her hands down from her
ears. A picture rose in her mind of Sebert's dream-lady, passing her waiting-
time among soft-voiced maids, and her heart turned sick within her.

It was little time that the pack gave her for revery, however; now it was
Edric Jarl of whom they wanted to hear.

"While they are talking about the terms, there is nothing to look at; tell us
how the Gainer pulled the net around King Edmund," the rough voices demanded.
And again she was obliged to bend her wits to their task.

But it came at last, the end that was the beginning. Suddenly a hand reached
around her neck and shut over her mouth. "Stop! They are taking their places.
Look!"

He need not have added that last word; from that moment for many thousands of
eyes there was but one object in the world,--the strip of rock-ribbed earth
and the two figures that faced each other upon it.

As they fixed their gaze on their champion, the English yelled exultantly, and
the Danes bravely rivalled them in noise; but it was more a cry of rage and
grief than a cheer. Now that the royal duellists stood forth together,
stripped of cloak and steel shirt, and wearing no other helm than the golden
circlet of their rank, their inequality was even more glaring than alarmed
fancy had painted it. The crown of Canute's shining locks reached only to the
chin of the mighty Ironside; and the width of nearly two palms was needed on
his shoulders.

Borgar turned, with tears in his bleared eyes, and threw himself face-downward
on the earth; and the fellow next to him, with the mien of a madman, thrust
his mantle between his teeth and bit and tore at it like a dog. "It is
murder," he snarled, "murder."

Of all the Northmen, the young King alone appeared serenely undisturbed. When
he had saluted the Ironside with royal courtesy, he met his sword as though he
were beginning a practising bout with his foster-brother. Smoothly, evenly,
without haste or fury, the blades began to sing their wordless song to the
listening banks.

After a time Borgar dared to raise his face from the grass. "Is he yet alive?"
he whispered.

The men did not seem to hear him. Humped over the earth, with starting eyes
and necks stretched to their uttermost, they were like so many boulders. Nor
did Frode's daughter seem to feel that the hand the Brass One had raised
himself upon was crushing her foot; she did not even glance toward him as she
answered: "Simpleton! Do you think the King does not know how to handle his
weapon? If only his strength--"

Her sentence was not finished, and the man next to her drew in his breath with
a great whistling rush. Canute's weapon, playing with the lightness of a
sun-beam, had evaded a stroke of the great flail and touched for an instant
the shoulder of its wielder. Had he put a pound more force into the thrust-- A
groan crept down the Danish line when the bright blade rose, as lightly as it
had fallen, and continued its butterfly dance. It consoled them a little,
however, that no cheer went up from the English,--only a low buzz that was
half of anger, half of astonishment.

Farther along the eastern bank, where Thorkel the Tall stood beside Ulf Jarl
and Eric of Norway, there was not even a groan. The first rift came in the
puzzled clouds of Eric's face. "Here is the first happening that makes me
hope!" he said. "If he has something more than his fencing accomplishment to
support him, it may be that an unfavorable outcome need not be expected."

The Tall One's brows relaxed ever so little from their snarl of worry. "The
boy has experienced good training, for all that he has at present the
appearance of a great fool. If Rothgar's warrior skill is in his arm, yet my
caution should be in his head."

Certainly there was no Berserk madness about the young Danishman; there was
hardly even seriousness. Now his blade was a fleeing will-o'-the-wisp, keeping
just out of reach of Edmund's brand with apparently no thought but of flight.
Now, when the Ironside's increasing vehemence betrayed him into an instant's
rashness, it was a humming-bird darting into a flower-cup. But it always rose
again as daintily as it had alighted.

The Danish bank was frantic with excitement. "It is the dance of the Northern
Lights!" they cried. "Thor has sent him his own sword!"

The lines of English were wild with anger. "Crush him, the hornet, the wasp l
Crush him, Edmund!" they roared.

In his exultation, the Scar-Cheek rolled himself over and over on the grass,
and wound up by thrusting his shaggy head into the lap of the red-cloaked
page. "I must do something for joy," he panted;"and--except for your hair--you
look near enough like a handsome woman. Do you bend down and kiss me every
time Canute pricks him."

His head fell to the ground with a thump as the child of Frode leaped to her
feet.

"If you lay finger on me again," she whispered, "I will caress you with this!"
and for an instant a knife-blade glittered before the bulging eyes. Snorri
rolled back with alacrity and an oath; and after a moment Frode's daughter
dropped down again and hid her face in her hands. If the King should be slain
and she be left adrift in this foul sea! She might as well have screamed as
moaned, for all that they would have noticed.

About this time Canute's blade appeared to have become in earnest. Ceasing its
airy defence, it took on the aggressive. Instead of a flitting sunbeam, it
became a shaft from a burning glass; instead of one merry humming-bird, it
became a whole swarm of skimming, swooping, darting swallows, waging war on a
bewildered owl. Before the sudden fury of the onslaught, Edmund gave back a
pace. And either because his anger made him reckless or his great bulk was
against him, he presently was forced to draw back another step. Wildest cheers
went up from the North-men. It seemed as though they would wade in a body
across the river.

Only Eric of Norway stamped with uneasiness; and the overhanging brows of
Thorkel the Tall were as lowering hoods above his eyes. "Well has he hoarded
his strength," he muttered. "Well has he saved it, yet--yet--"

At that moment such a roar went up from Northern throats as might well have
startled the wolf's shadow off the face of the sun; for Edmund Ironside had
retreated a third step, and the Dane's point appeared to lie at the
Englishman's heart. Then the uproar died somewhere in mid-air, for in what
seemed the very act of thrusting, Canute had leaped backward and lowered his
blade. So deep was the hush on either side the river that the whir of a bird's
wing sounded as loud as a flight of arrows. Bending forward, with strained
ears and starting eyes, the spectators saw that the Northern King was
speaking, eagerly, with now and then an impulsive gesture, while the English
King listened motionless.

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